


No Sparring At The Dinner Table

by AlphaStarr



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Cherche/Lon'qu Family Dynamics, Chrom/Olivia Royal Family Dynamics, F/M, Fictional Holidays, Gen, Inigo Thinks He's Clever But He's Not, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Nagamas, Tiki-kah, boyfriends being dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5608852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My mother wants me home for the holidays," said Gerome, spreading jam over his excessively dainty croissant. "Minerva and I are leaving tomorrow morning."<br/>"Are you asking me to meet your parents!?" Inigo exclaimed, nearly spilling his tea in his lap. And while that was, in fact, the last thing Gerome had on his mind, Inigo shouted, "Yes, I'll go with you!"</p><p>In which in-laws are scary, boyfriends are embarrassed, and Cherche makes one hell of a <i>coq au vin</i>. Modern/Fantasy Fusion AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Sparring At The Dinner Table

**Author's Note:**

  * For [http://atcfan.tumblr.com/](/gifts?recipient=http%3A%2F%2Fatcfan.tumblr.com%2F).



> This Cherche is heavily inspired by April's Cherche. She is my fave of all Cherches, and I will brook no argument.
> 
> This fic features a Lon'qu!Gerome and Chrom!Inigo. There are two Minervas; Cherche's (Minerva I) and Gerome's (Minerva Jr, AKA Minervykins). The latter Minerva, of course, is from the results of Cherche and MU's wyvern matchmaking.

One morning, Gerome realized that there would be no beating around the bush. For the past several days, he'd been attempting to puzzle out the best way to inform his partner that he would not, in fact, be able to spend their first Nagamas together. And so, surreptitiously looking up from the breakfast table, he opened his mouth.

"My mother wants me home for the holidays," said Gerome, spreading jam over his excessively dainty croissant. "Minerva and I are leaving tomorrow morning."

"Are you asking me to meet your parents!?" Inigo exclaimed, nearly spilling his tea in his lap. And while that was, in fact, the last thing Gerome had on his mind, Inigo shouted, "Yes, I'll go with you!"

"No!" Gerome blurted out, completely mortified. The last thing he needed was for his parents to embarrass him in front of his _boyfriend_. Or worse, for his boyfriend to embarrass him in front of his parents. "No, I'm _not_ asking you to meet my parents. I am leaving tomorrow morning, just myself and Minerva."

"But," Inigo set down his tea with a smirk, and pulled a letter from the inside of his vest. That little sneak. "Doesn't this specifically say, 'please do bring that darling young gentleman you mentioned you were seeing?' I would ever so hate to disappoint."

"Wha-" Gerome drew his face into a scowl. What little of it wasn't covered by his mask, anyways. "I didn't ask you to go through my mail."

"I didn't really _go through_ it," Inigo answered indignantly. "But it was sitting on your desk, and the stationery's pink and smells like ladies' perfume. What was I supposed to think?"

"..." Gerome narrowed his eyes-- not that Inigo could tell, but it was the thought that counted. "You were jealous?"

"... maybe," Inigo sulked, pouting over his tea. If he were one to use such words, Gerome might've called it... _cute_.

A heavy sigh escaped the masked wyvern rider's lips, "You still shouldn't have read it. I'm not taking you."

"What if I tell you that I'm really really sorry and promise not to do it again?" Inigo begged. "You've already met _my_ whole family."

"I know," Gerome cringed, remembering the holiday a month previous. The Autumn Harvest Festival had been nothing short of a nightmare, especially since his boyfriend had conveniently forgotten to mention that he was the _Prince of Ylisse._  And, more importantly, that his older sister was the Greatlord Lucina, whose fervor for the sword was rivaled only by her protectiveness of her brother's virtue. Gerome was pretty sure his bruises still had yet to completely fade.

"It wasn't _that_ bad, was it?" Inigo joked blithely.

Gerome thought about having to ride a Harvest Festival parade float as every person watching YlisseTV was treated to the sight of his burning red cheeks and Inigo's-- _Prince Inigo's_ \-- effusive displays of public affection. He recalled the "casual family dinner," where he'd wound up wearing a dress shirt and jeans to a six-course state banquet that included every royal Inigo was related to. Being soundly drubbed by Lucina in the Official Harvest Day Sparring Match on live television. Inigo's mother trying to teach him how to pole-dance in weird attempt at familial bonding. The paparazzi frenzy afterwards. He could still see the tabloid headlines haunting him-- "Who Is Prince's Mystery Man?"; "Inigo Comes Out Of Closet: Royal Succession In Jeopardy!"; "Exclusive Interview With Princess Lucina: 'Inigo Can Do Better.'"

There was no way to describe the absolute embarrassment he'd lived through. He settled for saying, "I can never show my face in public. Again."

"A shame," Inigo answered, softly tracing his fingers over the edge of Gerome's mask. "Because your face is even _more_ handsome when you aren't wearing this."

And, in possibly the smoothest move he'd ever pulled in his entire life, Inigo guided Gerome in for a tender, apologetic kiss.

Gerome couldn't say no to that mouth.

* * *

That was how, at two PM on Nagamas Eve, Gerome helped Inigo dismount his Minerva's back in front of his parents' colonial-style fort in Regna Ferox. Though they hardly had anything as extravagant as Ylisstol castle, his parents had managed to wrangle themselves a sturdy, pleasant home. Quite literally, as a matter of fact-- currency had little weight for the Feroxi, and strength was the law. Which, naturally, meant that the only legal way to buy a house was by emerging victorious from a duel with the previous owner.

"Nice place," Inigo commented, still slightly breathless from the flight.

Gerome gave him an askance look, fully aware of exactly what Inigo's childhood home looked like, "Right."

"Sooooo," Inigo drawled, beginning to unload their bags and packages from one of Minerva's saddlebags. "You never told me what your parents were like."

"... they're good fighters," Gerome grunted, not entirely sure how to answer that. "Ex-military."

"Were they strict on you when you were growing up?" Inigo prodded unhelpfully.

Gerome pursed his lips in thought before finally saying, "My mother didn't let me handle an axe until I was almost ten. Does that count?"

"I..." Inigo trailed off, visibly deflating.

"You'll meet them soon enough," Gerome grunted, patting Minerva's scaly neck as he walked her into the attached wyvern garage.

Inigo followed him in, wondering at the narrow space before he looked up and his mouth fell open, "What is _that_?"

"She's not a _what_ , she is a  _who_ ," Gerome sniffed, rubbing a gloved hand over the larger wyvern's snout. "This is Minerva."

"But I thought _that_ was Minerva!" Inigo gestured wildly to Gerome's mount, who was affectionately curling up against the larger wyvern's size. The garage had to be at least two stories tall, and almost as big as the house itself, and there was barely any room for them to move around.

" _That_ is Minerva the Second," Gerome explained, as if speaking to an idiot. " _This_ is Minerva the First, her mother."

"I can, um, see the family resemblance," Inigo winced. "They both have a lot of teeth."

"Yes," Gerome answered, completely serious. "Minerva the Second inherited her mother's phenotype for an extra row of canines, in addition to a spare set of incisors. However, you can't see that she's missing Minerva the First's third pair of venomous fangs, which are hidden behind the first two. That's actually a separate gene."

"O-oh," Inigo's knees began to buckle woozily, and that was when Gerome remembered that most people were actually quite frightened by the specifics of wyvern genetics. His boyfriend included.

"Gerome, is that you?" the door to the inside of the house burst open then, drawing the attention of Gerome and both Minervas. The woman inside wore an exceedingly fashionable cashmere knit, but seemed to have no reservations about possibly ruining it as she immediately went to embrace her son first, and then his still-unwashed wyvern. "Minervykins is looking as cute as ever, I see! You must be taking very good care of her, Gerome."

"You didn't tell me you had a sister," Inigo remarked.

Gerome looked at the roof and took a deep breath to refrain from replying that, well, Inigo hadn't exactly told him about being the _Prince of Ylisse_ either. Instead, he scowled, "I don't. Inigo, this is my mother, Cherche. Cherche, this is my partner, Inigo."

"You flatter me," Cherche shook his hand and Gerome thought _oh fuck--_  Inigo was definitely in danger. Cherche was a Rosannean woman; a handshake was the most cautious possible greeting in her entire arsenal of well-mannered verbal weapons.

"Oh, um, it's a pleasure to meet you, milady," Inigo grinned, just _barely_ the wrong side of too-charming. Gerome prayed to every god he knew of and even some that didn't exist that Inigo didn't mess this up.

He bowed courteously and kissed the back of her hand. Her smile fell from the corners of her eyes to her cheeks. Gerome wanted to cry. His mother had been young and popular, once, and particularly disliked men who did this sort of thing. As the hipsters would put it, she'd been a master of tearing down fuckbois before fuckbois were even a _thing_.

"Cherche is fine," she replied, withdrawing her hand. "Aren't you going to greet Minerva the same? She is, after all, practically Gerome's third parent."

"Um," Inigo stuttered, looking up at the fearsome wyvern. Minerva I released a draconic screech, showing off _all_ of her extra teeth.

"That means she's pleased to meet you, too," Cherche smiled a bit more brightly, somehow seeming threatening and welcoming at the same time.

"Yes, um," Inigo, not entirely sure how to go about it, bowed before the enormous wyvern and froze as she loomed over him, sniffing with such intensity that his hair was ruffled. Gerome held his breath, but: "You must be a star, because you're out of this world."

Gerome exhaled slowly, covering his reddening cheeks with his hand. It had taken him _months_ to break Inigo of that particular nervous habit. Months of enduring increasingly terrible pick-up lines. Months of Googling witty comebacks, and Inigo had just hit on a _wyvern_. In front of Gerome's _mother_.

Minerva, of course, cawed pleasantly. Gerome even thought she might be blushing. Naturally, Inigo didn't seem to notice, largely because she'd opened her mouth right in front of his face and he was getting up close and personal with all of those teeth.

"Do calm yourself; you _are_ a taken man," Cherche laughed pleasantly. It sent the slightest chill down Gerome's spine.

"I, um, only call it as I see it," Inigo grinned nervously.

An awkward silence settled into the room.

Gerome fidgeted, and just for something to say, "... it's cold."

"Ah! It seems I've grown too used to Feroxian weather," Cherche clapped her hands, bustling them into the house. "Come in, come in, leave the bags at the door. We'll take care of them once everyone's warm. Your father broke the coat rack again, Gerome, so it'll be the closet this time."

"Broke the coat rack?" Inigo inquired.

"He... spars with it sometimes," Gerome begrudgingly admitted.

"In the meantime, Inigo, do make yourself comfortable in the living room," Cherche urged, ever the excellent hostess. "Lon'qu's already there; don't mind it too much if he's not very talkative. Gerome gets it from _his_ side of he family."

"Oh! Uh," Inigo grasped wildly for words. At last he settled on, "If you're sure."

"Very," she replied, still smiling. "Gerome's more than enough help in the kitchen for me, as it _does_ get quite crowded."

"When did _I_ volunteer for this?" Gerome sputtered, eyes darting rapidly between his mother and his boyfriend, trying to assess if it would be safe to leave Inigo alone for more than two minutes.

"I'm afraid your father volunteered you," Cherche chuckled. "It'll be just like when we cooked together in your childhood. Come on, _coq au vin_ doesn't broil itself."

"... very well," Gerome answered at last. How could he refuse his mother's request when she said it like that?

He could only hope that his father found Inigo at least _tolerable_. He really, really didn't want to have to treat any stab wounds.

* * *

Inigo peered delicately past the archway of the living room, finding it decorated in exquisite greens and golds, save for an elegant gold-colored menorah with red candles above the merrily burning fireplace. A smile fell to his lips as he saw the decorated tree, hand-stitched embroidery ornaments dotting the upper boughs, and schoolcraft relics from Gerome's childhood weighing upon the lower ones. There was a frame that had a picture of Gerome, no older than six, _actually_ not scowling.

He was interrupted from marveling at the decor by the sharp shhkkk! of metal on stone, and when his eyes flickered to the source of noise, there sat a very obviously muscled man, sharpening a pile of more swords than Inigo had ever seen in one place all together. And that was saying something, because Inigo had been inside his family's royal armory.

"Have a seat," Lon'qu grunted, narrowing his eyes at Inigo.

The prince, however, remained oblivious to the transparent threat of each draw of sword upon whetstone, and casually seated himself beside Lon'qu on the bench, "Ah! I see you are a man of the sword. I fancy myself a decent enough swordsman, too."

"..." Lon'qu furrowed his brows. Odd. This display of subtle power usually sent Gerome's boyfriends running for the hills, braving the Feroxian winter to get away. He wasn't sure if the New Number One Domestic Enemy was exceedingly brave, or just outright stupid. Either way, it was a sure sign that he was a heartbreaker, and Lon'qu's son was about to be his next victim. Like hell would he let that happen. He cleanly stabbed the Killing Edge in the coat rack beside him. That would show Inigo that he meant business, he thought, and then began honing the next sword.

But Inigo continued to speak as if nothing had happened, "In Regna Ferox, do people usually sharpen their swords this way? My mother's from around here, and she does hers at the same angle."

Lon'qu's jaw tightened-- now was he being compared to the mother of this fool? When had his carefully devised method of keeping cruel girls and boys away from his sensitive baby son become so ineffective? His nose twitched indignantly, and he honed the edge of the blade extra-pointy at the end.

"I think, though, that the method takes off a bit too much metal for my liking. Then the sword itself gets kinda thin, and that's usually when it breaks," Inigo continued and-- woah, this was _not_ okay. Inigo had lifted a dull sword from the pile by Lon'qu's side, carefully glancing down the blade. Lon'qu bore down on his own sword extra-hard, sharpening it to an even deadlier slit.

Inigo had stolen his son, had come to Lon'qu's house, and now he was touching his _swords_? Lon'qu narrowed his eyes, practically feeling Inigo impugn upon the honor of his family.

Clearly, Inigo hadn't noticed that Lon'qu was trying to determine the best gap in his clothes to stab him through, because he was still tilting the sword every which way, analyzing it, "You see, if you hold the sword like this, and draw it over the whetstone across the grain like this, you can get smaller, finer filings. If you leave that side almost flat, and just hone the very edge over here, then that's also less surface area that gets worn down, and the edge still stays just as sharp. I know it doesn't look like much, but it makes the blade last maybe three or four times as long, which is useful if you're travelling."

Lon'qu scowled, "I don't want your advice."

He laughed, and Lon'qu almost stabbed him right then and there from the dishonor of it all, except then Inigo said, "Gerome told me that, too. You know, I can really see the family resemblance... he's _definitely_ his father's son."

And, well, that just made pride swell in Lon'qu's chest. Of course Gerome took after his father; he'd inherited Lon'qu's propensity for quick, skilled attacks and his killer instinct. And, of course, he damn well knew that Inigo was a fool who couldn't sharpen swords the proper, Feroxian way. It almost made him reconsider dueling the boy to restore his lost honor.

"Inigo!" Gerome suddenly swept in, looking faintly relieved that his father hadn't scared away his suitor. Again. "We're going outside."

"Hm?" Inigo carefully set down the blade. Then, with a lascivious wink, "Whatever you say, Gerome."

Gerome grumbled and blushed, the red reaching the very tips of his ears, as he grabbed Inigo by the arm and dragged him up the stairs, which was very decidedly not outside.

The duel, Lon'qu glowered, was definitely back on.

... but first he was going to sharpen another sword-- Inigo's way. It was, admittedly, pretty well thought-out. And thrifty. An extra handful of hits out of a blade could be useful in his profession as champion of the West, and well, it wasn't exactly _inexpensive_ to keep a wyvern fed.

* * *

"We have... traditions," Gerome began brusquely, yanking Inigo into the upstairs bathroom.

"... there's an axe mounted on your bathroom wall," Inigo commented faintly, staring at it with wide eyes.

"Yes, and it holds all of mother's knit axe cozies. Pay attention," Gerome snapped his fingers. "We have traditions. My father is going to start making latkes in half an hour. My mother is going to bake croissants. This stops being Nagamas Eve and starts being Tiki-kah at 1600 hours exactly. My mother _will_ gift you a sweater. You _will_ wear it, and you will thank her for it. You will avoid speaking to my father at all costs. Have I made myself clear?"

"Oh! Uh, yes," Inigo nodded, not sure exactly why he was being debriefed as if he were going to battle. Still, he managed to stutter out, "I mean, y-yes, sir!"

"Good," tension seeped from Gerome's shoulders and, now that Inigo thought about it, he _did_ appear kind of stressed. "The Divine Voice Tiki will fly overhead and breathe fire on the Yule Log in our backyard somewhere around 2000 hours. We will light the menorah with it. It is then immediately Nagamas Eve again, and we will eat dinner according to tradition, except we will light a fig pudding on fire with the menorah at the end."

"I didn't know you celebrated Tiki-kah," Inigo remarked. He gestured to the gold tinsel fringes on his hems, "I would've worn a more neutral sweater."

"My father, despite being raised Feroxian, is originally from Chon'sin," Gerome explained, rolling his eyes. "And mother will want you to wear _her_ sweater, anyways. It would have been pointless."

"Oh, that explains all the swords then," Inigo laughed casually, as if Lon'qu's cultural origins somehow explained why he was sharpening swords in their living room.

"... swords?" Gerome asked, drawing his brows in concern. "Did he _threaten_ you?"

"No, of course not," Inigo shook his head. "We just talked about sharpening techniques for a while."

"That's... good," Gerome ventured hesitantly. Of course he was aware that his father had scared away all of his exes; he wasn't blind. He just wasn't sure whether Inigo's remaining oblivious to the threat was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Anyways, while we're up here," Inigo unsubtly wound his fingers around Gerome's cravat. "What do you say we make use of the privacy?"

"We are in _my parents'_ house, Inigo," Gerome subtly unwound Inigo's fingers from the cloth. "I'm not participating in whatever you have planned."

"I just want a little kiss," Inigo pouted, taking advantage of the pause to hold Gerome's hands.

"Insufferable," Gerome grumbled, pointedly ignoring him to manhandle him back down the stairs. "It's _never_ 'just a kiss' with you."

"Oh, there you are, Gerome," Cherche waited pointedly at the bottom of the stairs, already changed into an entirely too fashionable sweater in the pinks and lime greens of Tiki-kah. The depiction of a dragon's head was knit into the front. "It's time for sweaters, potatoes, and croissants! Happy Tiki-kah!"

"Happy Tiki-kah to you, too!" Inigo replied, still ignorant of the fact that remaining silent was probably his best chance of survival.

"We brought wine," Gerome interrupted, because the gods only knew that Inigo would just keep digging his own grave. "Whiteshear, from the last time I was in Chon'sin."

Cherche cringed, "It may be a bit too generous to call it 'wine.' Still, your father will appreciate it."

Lon'qu was in the kitchen, it turned out, wearing his own Tiki-kah sweater beneath a very heavily embroidered apron. The green sweater was hemmed with a repeating pattern of red and pink dreidels, and bags upon bags of potatoes sat at his feet. He was using one of his many, many swords to shred the peeled tubers at the impressive rate of fifteen per minute, and an enormous griddle pan sat across their entire six-burner stove.

"That's a lot of potatoes," Inigo looked faintly impressed.

"The Minervas are carnivorous," answered Lon'qu tersely, "But they can still appreciate a good latke."

"Besides," Cherche smiled, combing her fingers through her husband's badly-mussed hair. "There weren't any bandits this year."

"... I would have found one for you," Lon'qu scowled.

"Don't be barbaric, darling," her tinkling laugh ill-suited the topic of conversation. "You would have gone out to find a poor, frightened runaway recruit, and then where would the army be?"

Inigo softly 'eep'ed and shifted just a bit closer to Gerome's side.

"Croissant," Gerome held up the pastry unhelpfully. "Eat one."

"Mmph," Inigo opened his mouth to speak, but Gerome tactfully shut him up with a croissant to the face. Inigo bit, chewed. "Gods, that's good."

"My mother's recipe," Cherche smiled, as pleasant as ever. "Do tell me if you'd like the card."

"I'm, ah, afraid I'm not much of a baker," Inigo rubbed the back of his neck. Not much of a baker, thought Gerome, was actually quite a generous description for Inigo's culinary skills. If it involved anything more complicated than a microwave or boiling water for tea, chances were that there would be a fire department call involved.

"It's never too late to learn," she replied, sweeping into the nearby living room. "But first, holiday sweaters! I do hope yours fits you, Inigo-- I'm afraid Gerome refused to give me your measurements, so I had to make a few guesses."

"Oh, er, thank you very much!" Inigo beamed even as an enormous red sweater was shoved into his arms. He carefully unfolded it, revealing the design-- two wyvern clawprints on the left shoulder in bright green, and words emblazoned in white across the front: "Oh, I see, 'Minervy Snacks!' Kind of like 'Scooby Snacks,' but for wyverns, right? That's kind of cute! I didn't know that was a real wyvern snacks brand."

"It isn't," answered Cherche, as sweetly as ever. "Minerva eats people."

"O-oh," Inigo paled, eyes shifting to Gerome for help. His boyfriend, in spite of his red cheeks, only scowled at him and pulled on his own sweater-- black, with a depiction of their family's menorah stitched onto the front. Swallowing his fear, Inigo shucked off his tacky (and incredibly itchy) Nagamas sweater, and pulled on the one Cherche had presented him with. It was actually incredibly comfy and soft and, really, only a bit too big for him. "It's very warm."

"Ah, well, I do have access to quite a bit of yarn. We keep sheep for when Minerva needs a bit of a nibble," Cherche explained, hefting what looked like a ridiculously huge blanket into her arms. "Gerome, darling, do be a dear and bring the Minervas their scarves. The green one is for my Minerva; I do think the color will compliment her scales quite beautifully. The pink one is for Minervykins, because she just looks so darn cute in it."

"Hn," Gerome grunted, but did as she asked anyways, and vacated the room.

Cherche immediately rounded on Inigo, "So, Inigo, where are you from?"

"Um, I'm from Ylisse. The capitol city, actually," Inigo tried to explain. What was it with this family _not realizing_ that he was the Prince of Ylisse until much later in their acquaintance? Not like he was prolific as Lucina or their father, but still. Come to think of it, he hadn't actually seen a TV or computer anywhere in the house... "If you don't mind my asking, was there any particular reason you asked?"

"So I know where to send your remains if you break my baby boy's heart," Cherche replied pleasantly, offering up a plate of home baked goods. "Cookie?"

"Erm," Inigo stuttered, unease settling into his skin. "I really shouldn't."

"Nonsense, you are far too skinny as it is," Cherche rebuffed in such a motherly manner that Inigo was practically compelled to take one. He almost spit it out as she added, "Minerva would barely consider you a morsel right now."

"I, um, I'm trying to avoid being eaten by Minerva anytime soon," Inigo's knees trembled, and he thought he could probably be forgiven for sitting down because it was a lot better than fainting on the floor. "And I don't plan to break Gerome's heart, either. I mean, I'll probably mess up and say something stupid to him at one point or another, but I wouldn't on purpose. Not ever. That would be horrible. And, I mean, I'm not that smart and I'm pretty bad with words but if I do something to hurt him then I'll do anything I can to fix it. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I only have good intentions?"

He picked timidly at the collar of his Minervy Snacks sweater and averted her eyes with a deep blush, and Cherche could tell that he truly meant it, "You needn't concern yourself for now; you haven't done anything wrong yet. I only thought it polite to warn you of potential consequences in advance. Come on, have another cookie-- the snickerdoodles are still warm."

"Okay," Inigo agreed, and as it melted on his tongue he was glad he did.

* * *

To Gerome's enormous relief, Inigo had not been cleaved in two by an errant axe while he was in the garage. Indeed, their celebration of Tiki-kah went largely uninterrupted, save for when the Holy Manakete almost missed their Yule log and narrowly avoided hitting the house instead. But perhaps, he realized, things were going too well, as Inigo helpfully assisted in carrying dishes to the table, Cherche tittering with laughter at hilarious (mortifying) anecdotes of a saga that Inigo called, "Five Times Gerome Rejected Me, And One Time He Said Yes."

He was in the middle of describing the third (actually the thirteenth) time he'd been rejected, when he'd asked Gerome's friends about things he liked and wound up trying to ask him out to his favorite food chain while wearing the only piece of Batman merchandise he owned-- which happened to be a set of footie pajamas. Quite frankly, the entire situation had been the second-most embarrassing day of Gerome's life, and he really preferred his mother not knowing about it at all.

"And of course, you know, I couldn't really let the reservations go to waste-- the Olive Garden waitstaff can be surprisingly vindictive-- so I went anyways," Inigo finished. He laughed, blushing a bit, "By myself, and still wearing the pajamas, mind you."

"Oh, you poor dear," Cherche snickered. "But you _do_ have to know that Gerome wore those very same pajamas, from Valmart and all, for almost all of his childhood. I think I've got a picture or two in the photo album, if you're interested."

"That won't be necessary!" Gerome protested, his face still burning.

"I'm afraid he's still rather upset about outgrowing their largest size as a teenager," Cherche remarked, and Gerome just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry of shame. "I did try to recreate one out of fleece, but Gerome wouldn't have it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Inigo frowned, lightly rebuffing Gerome on the shoulder. "They sell the adult sizes online. I would've gotten one for you."

"I outgrew footie pajamas-- _emotionally_ \-- several years ago," Gerome sniffed indignantly, even though he was secretly still not quite over it.

"Potatoes are done," Lon'qu interrupted gruffly, dropping an enormous casserole dish of potatoes au gratin on the table. It was such a large dish that Inigo had no doubt there would be leftovers upon leftovers. Actually, he was pretty sure there would be leftovers upon leftovers of _everything_.

"Oh, excellent!" Cherche smiled. "That'll be the last of them, I think. Let's sit."

Gerome silently thanked every god he knew of that, at least, they'd made it to dinner all right. And that Inigo hadn't yet run screaming from the house, in spite of Minerva the First and his father's swords and the Tiki-kah holiday sweater his mother had given him. There were only four more hours left to Nagamas Eve, and after that, eight or nine hours more until he could make his escape, right after Nagamas brunch. Twelve hours left to go-- only five, really, if you just counted the ones Gerome had to be conscious during. 

But apparently, he'd let his guard down too soon, because just as he was about to ask his mother to pass the haricot verts, Inigo murmured in his ear a terrible joke about how very much he'd like to swallow _Gerome's_ coq au vin. Terrible, terrible mispronunciation included.

That was when Lon'qu snapped.

"You!!!" he roared, furious at Inigo for dishonoring the sanctity of No PDA At The Dinner Table. His sword-sharpening skills had been insulted; his domestic security had been threatened; his son had been (very slightly) debauched at his own dinner table. "You have impugned upon my honor. We will fight."

"Um," Inigo started, but whatever he might've been about to say was interrupted by Lon'qu withdrawing his sword and lunging over the dinner table to get at him. "Eep!"

"Lon'qu!" Cherche admonished, trying to prevent the mess from spreading as the tablecloth fell off the table.

"Gods," Gerome bemoaned, eyes darting around in hopes of finding a weapon Inigo could at least protect himself with.

"Look," Inigo tried to reason, trying to parry Lon'qu's blows with the soup ladle in his left hand. "I really, really don't want to fight you!"

"Spoken like a craven," answered Lon'qu, refusing to relent on his attacks.

"No, I mean," Inigo cringed at the clang of metal-on-metal. "I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding!"

"Then prove it with your strength," the swordsmaster challenged.

Gerome was faintly aware of his mother yelling in the background, attempting to restore order. He'd also managed to yank a (decorative) bamboo sword from their China cabinet, and attempting to intercept his father's errant blade. It was all drowned out by Inigo crying out as a sharp edge sliced against his sword arm.

There was more blood than he'd ever seen at Nagamas Eve dinner before. And for Gerome, that was saying something, because they usually fed Minerva and Minerva right after this.

"Do you yield?" Lon'qu scowled, still leaning into the blade as Inigo blocked a second strike with his ladle.

"I've been trying to for the past ten minutes," Inigo groaned. "But there's something you should know."

"What?" Lon'qu prodded.

"I," answered Inigo, knocking the sword from Lon'qu's hand as he shifted his ladle from left to right. "Am not left handed. Can someone take me to the hospital now?"

Gerome looked to his mother for approval, and she nodded, "Go, Gerome. I need to have a word or two with your father."

"Right," Gerome carefully hoisted Inigo to his feet, stemming the bleeding with one of his mother's holiday best embroidered napkins. "Are you dizzy?"

"Only a little," Inigo professed, wobbling a bit as Gerome guided him to the garage. "It's just a flesh wound. I've had worse."

"You still need stitches," Gerome informed him as he toppled over onto Minerva's back. "Try to stay conscious, at least until we reach the Emergency Room."

"I can't believe your dad tried to _stab_ me," Inigo moaned.

" _I_ can't believe he _succeeded_ ," Gerome scowled, seating himself behind his boyfriend in order to keep him upright, taking the reins on either side of Inigo's body. "Put your other hand over the wound. Tell me if you think you're going to fall off."

"I think I'm going to fall off," said Inigo immediately. He admitted, "I think I may have hit my head against the table when it came down."

"Gods, Inigo," Gerome sighed, completely exasperated with his family, his boyfriend, and even himself. He prodded Minerva with his heels, and she took off, "I shouldn't have let you talk me in to taking you with me."

"Still better than Nagamas at my house," Inigo grinned brightly, if a bit woozily. Gerome was suddenly reminded of the Brand in Inigo's eye as the moon's light glinted off of it, the Holy Blood that was probably dripping down his shoulder right now. "Ylisstol always has too much media, too many politicians. But the pilgrims this time of year are the _worst_."

* * *

 

**Bonus Scene**

* * *

"And what, my dear, do you have to say about tonight?" Cherche displayed a slightly-too-saccharine facade of a pleasant conversation as she carefully mopped up the spilled soup. That was when Lon'qu knew that his next answer could make or break it.

"..." Lon'qu paused in the middle of scrubbing Inigo's blood from the floor, as if thinking for a second. "It could have been worse."

Cherche's smile was wearing thin, "You just tried to stab our son's boyfriend in the middle of dinner, spilling the entire meal on the floor, ruining my best tablecloth with blood, and you didn't even wait until after dessert. Gerome just called me to inform us that they will be in the Emergency Room overnight. Tell me, Lon'qu, how could this dinner have possibly gone worse?"

"Well," the swordsman grunted, averting his eyes. "He could've brought home a woman."

All pretenses of a smile dropped off Cherche's face, her eyes growing stone-cold, "Couch, Lon'qu. For the next month, _if_   I'm feeling favorable."


End file.
